


Golden Daffodils

by DisplacedKey



Category: Pilgrimage (2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, David: A crush? I don't know what that is, Fluff, Librarian Diarmuid, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Single Dad David
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-13
Updated: 2020-08-09
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:00:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24691168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DisplacedKey/pseuds/DisplacedKey
Summary: David is a single dad with no one but his young daughter. On his latest trip to the library, he meets the new children's librarian, Diarmuid, and suddenly that changes.
Relationships: Brother Diarmuid/The Mute, The Mute/Original Female Character(s) (Past)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 19





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from "I Wandered Lonely As A Cloud" by William Wordsworth.

It’s a sunny, if not incredibly warm, May day when David takes his daughter to the library. They haven’t been there for a while, mostly because David isn’t a reader and Casey was satisfied with her collection of coloring books up to now. Casey skips along beside him, her long dark braid swinging back and forth behind her. It’s hard to believe she’s eight now. It feels like yesterday that she was just a red, wrinkly, screaming bundle in his arms. God, the lungs on her. All the noise David didn’t make condensed into one tiny little creature. So confused and enraged at being expelled from the womb that she bopped the doctor right on the nose. David was so proud he could’ve burst. Eireen thought he was crazy, smiling every time their daughter shrieked, and David didn’t know how to explain it to her. Not that it mattered, in the end.  


David shakes those thoughts away as they draw nearer to the library. He tugs gently on Casey’s braid to get her attention and says, “Remember, shh.”

She giggles and nods. The children’s section is at the back of the library farthest from the door, and she makes a point of tiptoeing across the faded blue carpet until they get there. At the desk, David expects to see Mrs. Murphy, an elderly woman who wore floral cardigans and a pair of enormous cat-eye glasses. Instead there’s a young man in his mid-twenties wearing a white, short-sleeved button-up patterned with little teacups. He has short curly brown hair, brown eyes, and a smattering of freckles. Three beaded bracelets circle each wrist and a delicate golden cross necklace rests against his chest. The nameplate on his desk says Diarmuid Halloran.

Casey squints at him. “You’re not Mrs. Murphy.”

Diarmuid smiles and says, “No, she retired last month and I was lucky enough to get hired in her place. My name’s Diarmuid. What’s yours?”

“Casey,” David’s daughter says, blatantly looking the new librarian up and down. “I like your bracelets, where’d you get them?”

“Oh, I made these!” Diarmuid says, lifting his hands to better display the jewelry. Casey oohs in admiration. “It’s been a hobby of mine for years.”

“They’re so pretty,” she says. “How’d you do it?”

“It’s mostly just putting beads on a string,” he says. “But if you want to learn more about it, we do have a book about jewelry-making. That’s Arts and Recreation, so...seven hundred is your shelf, near the window.”

“Really?” Casey says. “Ooh! And where are your books about mummies?”

“Ah,” Diarmuid says, typing something into his computer. “Mummies, hm? That would be...nine hundred. Not far from the window, either. You have quite a few books to choose from as well. Happy hunting!”

Casey giggles and heads into the room. Diarmuid looks up at David with that same polite, amiable smile and says, “So is there something I can call you, sir?”

“David Madigan,” he says, sticking his hands in his pockets. He’s no good at small talk. “Casey’s father. Uh. Nice to meet you.”

“It’s nice to meet you too,” Diarmuid says. “Do you come here often?”

David shakes his head.

“Well, if you’re interested, I’m hosting some events here in the coming months,” Diarmuid says. “There’s a weekly story time, a monthly arts and crafts day, a movie—you know what, let me just give you the schedule.” He rummages around in one of the desk drawers and produces a piece of paper covered with dates and times. “I know it may not be feasible to attend all of these, but I’d love to see Casey at a few! No pressure, though.”

David nods. Maybe he will. He’s not one to turn down free entertainment, and Casey would probably love it.

Casey comes trotting back with a small stack of books in her arms and a big smile on her face. She has four books on mummies and one about jewelry-making. Diarmuid chats with her about the little details of making beaded bracelets as he checks out the books. Casey nods dutifully, clearly trying to commit everything to memory. David takes the stack of books for her and she gives Diarmuid a cheery wave goodbye as they leave. He returns it with a smile.

“I like him,” Casey says as they walk back. “He’s nice.”

David hums in agreement. Later that night, after he’s pried Casey away from mummies long enough to put her to bed, he sits in his beaten-up recliner and looks at the library schedule again. Assuming most of these events were put together by Diarmuid himself, he’s gotten a lot done in a month. He must be really dedicated. And so young—every librarian David’s ever known has been middle-aged at least. Diarmuid must be right out of university. He’s good with kids, too, if the way he treated Casey is any indication.

David stretches, sets the schedule on the coffee table, and takes a moment to look around the living room.

Theirs is a small house, with just one floor, two bedrooms, and a single bathroom. The wood floors are worn, the baseboards chipped and dingy with age. The walls are olive green. The furniture is old and mismatched; the recliner is faux leather, the couch is light blue, the area rug is dark red, and the coffee table is white-painted wood. It’s all pretty tattered, but it’s still usable, so David is loath to part with any of it. He’d much rather spend money on important things, like...well, like anything for Casey.

Once he’s done looking around, David grabs the broom. He always leaves the chores for the end of the day. Once Casey is asleep, he has no one else to talk to. Most of the people he used to know were Eireen’s friends, and after she left, it was too awkward to stay in touch. David’s social circle got replaced by Casey. By the time she no longer needed constant attention, his adult social circle had shrunk to his coworkers and Casey’s teachers.

Sweeping the living room brings him to the mantle, where framed photos take up almost every inch of space. Most of them are of Casey growing up, and he takes a moment to look them over. Casey as a baby, one pudgy fist buried in David’s beard; Casey as a toddler, up to her eyes in mud; Casey on Christmas, wearing tinsel as a scarf; Casey sitting at the kitchen table, frowning at a piece of homework; Casey beaming over a bright pink birthday cake. There are a few of David, mainly taken by Casey without his knowledge, which Casey insisted on having framed as well. David standing in front of the stove; David folding laundry; David asleep and drooling onto his pillow.

The largest picture, sitting in the center of the mantle, was taken shortly after Casey was born. Eireen is holding her, her face sweaty and her dark hair disheveled, but smiling so wide it almost looks painful. David stands, crouching, beside her, one arm around her shoulders. He’s grinning too, his eyes crinkled with pure joy. Then there’s Casey, swaddled up with her little hat on, mercifully asleep. He debated replacing this picture with something after Eireen left, but the memory is too happy to give up.

David shakes himself out of his memories and keeps sweeping. No point in dwelling on that anymore.

The first children’s reading corner is that Saturday. It’s a grey, rainy day. At her request, David gives Casey a French braid. Unbothered by the bleak weather, she splashes in every puddle they come across on the walk to the library.

Diarmuid is wearing a white button-up patterned with little rainbows this time, which seems appropriate. He’s sitting on a red beanbag in the corner, backed by the dark wooden shelves, and in front of him on a sky-blue rug are about six kids. He looks up when they enter and, smiling, waves. Casey enthusiastically waves back and tugs David over to the group. At first he thinks she just wants him to say hi, but then she pulls him down to the floor and sits beside him.

David raises his eyebrow at her; this is, after all, children’s story time. She gives him an encouraging pat on the knee, clearly expecting him to stay. He doesn’t have anywhere else to go, so, stay it is.

“Okay, kids,” Diarmuid says, giving David an apologetic glance. “Today we’re going to start Coraline. This one’s a bit spooky, but it’s one of my favorites.”

He’s a good reader; he goes slowly, his voice is loud and clear, and he does voices for all of the characters. He’s clearly having a good time, and David finds himself getting sucked into the story. When Diarmuid shuts the book, David’s almost as disappointed as the kids, though he doesn’t vocalize it the way they do. As the kids disperse, Casey trots up to Diarmuid and immediately starts talking about how cool the story is and how creepy the button eyes are. Diarmuid listens with an appreciative smile. “I’m glad you liked it,” he says once Casey stops to take a breath. “And you, David?”

“It was interesting,” he says. “Hope I didn’t intrude.”

“Not at all!” Diarmuid says, standing up. “Everyone is welcome to stay. Really, I’m just glad you didn’t seem bored.”

“You’re a good reader,” David says as Casey slips her hand into his. “It was nice.”

Diarmuid’s smile widens. “Thank you for saying so.”

They stare at each other for a moment, at a loss for what to say. Casey tugs on David’s hand and says, “Daddy, we have to buy groceries.”

David snaps out of it and says, “Right.”

“Oh, yes, of course,” Diarmuid says, blinking. “Well, I hope I get to see you next week! If you’ll excuse me…”

Diarmuid heads back to his desk and David leads Casey to the door. He stops right before they leave to glance back at Diarmuid, who’s sitting with his chin resting on his folded hands as he talks to one of the kids. He lifts one hand to sweep his curls back, that ever-present smile on his face.

Casey tugs on David’s hand again. David fumbles for his umbrella—right, it’s raining. He completely forgot.

Trips to the library become a regular thing. They go to children’s story time every Saturday and Casey gets new books every time she turns in the old ones. While she browses, David and Diarmuid talk. Diarmuid loves talking, so David learns a lot.

He learns that Diarmuid owns a grey tabby cat named Sebastian (“You know, like the saint?”) that he adopted as a stray kitten. Diarmuid worked at a grocery store while earning his master’s degree and hated it. In addition to making bracelets, he knits, sews, and embroiders. He doesn’t have much in the way of social media. He babysat all through high school. He shops mainly at secondhand stores and owns a lot of books. He reads just about anything.

David files these tidbits of information away in his mind in a folder labeled Diarmuid. Alongside them are snapshots that stick in David’s head, like the photos that line his mantle—Diarmuid holding up the framed photo of Sebastian he keeps on his desk; Diarmuid allowing one of the kids to put smiley-face stickers on his cheeks; Diarmuid holding court over story time, half a dozen kids hanging on to his every word; Diarmuid throwing his head back and laughing, bubbly with joy.

Diarmuid manages to pry a few facts out of David as well. He knows David is single, and has been for almost a decade. He knows David is a car mechanic. It takes two months for David to admit that he plays guitar, and shortly after, that he whittles.

“You do?” Diarmuid says, immediately perking up. He’s wearing a navy blue button-up with tiny stars and his nails are painted bright yellow. “I’ve never met someone who whittled before! What do you make?”

David rubs the back of his neck. “Animals mostly,” he says. “Casey loves them. She has a million of them.”

“That’s amazing,” Diarmuid says, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “I never thought of whittling before. I’d probably cut my hands to ribbons.”

“It takes some practice,” David agrees. “I couldn’t embroider anything.”

“Well, that takes practice too. But instead of slicing your fingers, you stab them.” Diarmuid grins. “I guess that’s the danger of working with sharp things.”

Casey trots up, slaps a huge book about dragons onto the desk, and asks to see the picture of Sebastian again. Diarmuid obliges her with a fond quirk of the brow. David gets an idea.

That night he grabs a piece of basswood and his carving knife and settles on the couch. Whittling has always been a calming hobby. His dad started teaching him when he was five, and now, thirty years later, it’s still just as soothing. Working with his hands has always smoothed his rough edges; he can let the noisy, unpredictable world fade away and just do something, and do it well, and have a tangible result at the end.

The sheer number of them that Casey has in her room is a testament to how much David likes doing it. She has an entire zoo in there—dogs and cats and birds, sheep and wolves and deer, mice and squirrels and rabbits. They line the top of her dresser, the edges of her desk, and live in piles in her toy chest. When she was in kindergarten, she would refuse to leave the house without one of them in her backpack, claiming that they would protect her from monsters.

David takes the rest of the week to finish his project. He doesn’t have a ton of time between Casey, work, and chores, and he wants to make sure it’s perfect. It burns in his pocket for the entirety of story time. Once story time is over, however, David finds himself wracked with nerves. What if Diarmuid doesn’t like it? What if he thinks it’s weird? Is it weird? They’ve known each other for months but they’ve only ever talked at the library. Has David read too much into this? It’s been so long since he’s had friends, maybe he doesn’t know where the boundaries are anymore. Probably Diarmuid just thinks of him as an acquaintance, a parent who’s nice to talk to and nothing more. David coming in with this personal gift is going to look overly-familiar.

He’s two seconds from walking right out the door when Casey grabs his hand and drags him over to the desk. “Daddy has a gift for you!” she says, and, well, shit.

Diarmuid looks up at David in surprise. “Oh?” he says. There’s another sticker on his cheek, a smiling sun.

David pulls the whittled cat from his pocket and sets it on the desk, fixing his gaze slightly above Diarmuid’s eyes. Diarmuid gasps and picks it up. “Oh my goodness!” he says.

David clears his throat. “It’s, uh, your cat. Supposed to be, anyway.”

“My…?” Diarmuid looks from the wooden figure to the picture on his desk. They’re in the same position: a loaf shape, head tilted up, eyes just barely open. It took David ages to get the little details of the markings, the shape of the tiny nose. Diarmuid’s eyes widen in recognition. “Oh!” he says. “It is Sebastian! Oh, David, that’s so sweet! Thank you so much!” He turns the figure over, admiring every detail. “This is incredible, David. I can’t believe you did this for me.”

“It was nothing,” David says, ducking his head. “I enjoyed it, so. No big deal.”

“Daddy makes me little animals all the time,” Casey says. “He’s really good at it.”

“He certainly is,” Diarmuid says. He sets the little wooden Sebastian right beside the picture and gives David a blinding grin. “I love it. I can’t wait to repay you.”

David blinks. “What? No. No, that’s not—”

“Oh, I have to! Hmm, what to make?” He dramatically taps his chin in thought. Casey giggles.

David shakes his head. “No, I don’t want you to feel obligated.”

Diarmuid laughs. “I’m not, I want to! Though if this is how you’re going to be about it…” He leans forward and says to Casey in a conspiratorial half-whisper, “You’re gonna have to give me some tips.”

Casey grins and salutes. David might be screwed.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> David receives a gift despite his protests and also meets some new people.

Diarmuid and Casey are plotting against David and he doesn’t know how to stop it. Sure, the “plotting” may be Diarmuid trying to give him a gift, but still. David doesn’t  _ want _ a gift. He didn’t want to make Diarmuid feel like he owed him something. 

“David,” Diarmuid says after David tries, once again, to talk him out of it. “I told you, I want to do this. I like giving gifts!” He reaches out and taps the wooden Sebastian on the head, a new habit. “Casey agrees with me.”

Casey is a colluding little troublemaker. She keeps telling Diarmuid stuff like David’s favorite color and what type of music he likes. David’s positive that she has some idea of what Diarmuid is making, but she makes a zipped-lip gesture the one time he asks. “Traitor,” he says without heat. They’re doing a spa day, which involves Casey trying to wash David’s hair while he’s bent over the edge of the bathtub and accidentally dumping water all over him. 

“Oops,” she says. “Did you keep your eyes closed, though? Eyes closed means no stinging.”

David gives her a thumbs-up as water flows over his face. It’s a good thing he put towels down. Casey grabs what might be their last dry towel and wraps it over his entire head. “Now you look kind of like a mummy!” she says. “Did you know people in Europe used to eat mummies as medicine? It says so in one of my library books!”

David isn’t sure what to say to that, so he settles for pulling the damp towel away from his face and raising an eyebrow. Casey giggles. 

Ten minutes later they’re seated on opposite sides of the coffee table, paper towels spread over the surface, as Casey paints David’s nails. She applies the glittery purple polish with laser focus, her face an inch from David’s hands. A bottle of nail polish remover and a box of Q-tips sits beside them, ready to clean up any messy edges or wayward splotches. She’s doing a pretty good job. 

“I want to get mummified when I die,” Casey says. “You can keep my sarcophagus in my old bedroom.”

“...Yeah?” David says. “I don’t think you need to be worried about that yet.”

“It’s gonna be a really fancy sarcophagus,” she continues, as if he hadn’t spoken. “Like the royalty had. You know, all gold and painted and stuff?”

“Right.”

“It’s a good thing people don’t eat mummies anymore,” she muses, moving onto his left pinkie. “Maybe some weird people would, though. Daddy, you have to make sure nobody eats my dead body.”

This is not a conversation David thought he would be having with his eight-year-old daughter. The wonders of fatherhood. “I promise,” he says, and then thinks, too late, that maybe he should’ve reassured her that nobody was going to try eating her corpse in the first place. Whoops. 

Casey seems satisfied, though, and pulls back to look over his hands. “Done!” she says. “Now we just need to wait for them to dry and add the topcoat. It’ll last longer that way.”

She sits on his lap while they watch cartoons and he rests his chin on her head. It hits him, once again, how lucky he is to have this, to have her. This amazing little human who loves and trusts him without reservation. It’s hard to believe he had a hand in creating someone so incredible, but here she is. 

“Do you like your nails, Daddy?”

He kisses the top of her head. “They’re perfect.”

She beams and twists around to kiss him on the cheek, giggling as his beard tickles her face. 

At work the next day, his coworker Alec spies his nails in the little corner where they hang their coats and smirks. “Nice manicure,” he says. “Did the other ladies at the salon like it too?”

David levels him with a glare. “You got some kind of problem with the way I spend time with my daughter?”

The smile slides off his face. “No,” he says. “No, uh, not at all.”

“That’s what I thought,” David says. 

Jason elbows Alec and mutters, “Nice save, moron.”

“Shut up,” Alec hisses back. They both go silent when David walks past them into the garage, and he suppresses the urge to roll his eyes.

David has a reputation as the guy you don’t want to mess with. Not because he’s cruel or violent; he mostly keeps to himself and barely speaks to anyone, and nowadays his coworkers are content to leave him to it. But back when Casey was two or three, a mechanic named Phil asked David out for a drink. David had refused, saying, as usual, that he had to watch Casey. Phil had scoffed and said, “Man, don’t you know how to have fun? Just pawn the brat off to a neighbor or something, give yourself a break from the mini ball and chain.”

David punched him so hard he knocked him unconscious and said, very calmly, “Does anyone else want to say something about my daughter?”

The answer was no. David’s daughter had been a delicate topic at the garage ever since. Most of his coworkers refrained from even bringing her up for fear of meeting the business end of David’s fist. He was fine with that, and fine with being left alone. Most of his coworkers were kind of assholes anyway. 

That day is another library day. David finds himself relaxing as they step through the door to the quiet, air-conditioned interior. Diarmuid greets them with a grin and says, “I love your nails, David. Very eye-catching.”

“Casey’s handiwork,” David says, and Casey launches into a short speech on how to do a perfect manicure. 

“We had a spa day yesterday,” she finishes. “Also, I’m gonna have a really fancy sarcophagus. Right, Daddy?”

David nods and Diarmuid raises an eyebrow. “A very glittery one, I bet.”

“But nobody’s gonna eat  _ my _ mummy like in the olden times.”

Diarmuid gives David a wide-eyed glance and all he can do is shrug. “I...see. Well, I’m glad the books have been educational, at least.”

Casey nods. “How’s Daddy’s present?”

Diarmuid’s eyes twinkle with excitement. “As a matter of fact, it’s done.”

“You really didn’t have to do this,” David says as Diarmuid reaches into one of the desk drawers. 

“So I’ve heard. Lucky for you, I love making gifts for my friends,” Diarmuid says. “So, here you go!”

The gift is a knitted tote bag with squared edges and small stitches. It’s soft to the touch and the wool is dark green, which is David’s favorite color. Casey oohs and aahs over it as Diarmuid explains that he wanted to give David something useful, something that he could maybe carry groceries or, topically, library books in. Casey informed him that dark green was David’s favorite color so that was the obvious choice for wool, and did David like it? 

It’s a very thoughtful gift, right down to its utility, which David does appreciate. Diarmuid somehow managed to nail down the specific shade of dark green that David likes the most, a pine green that reminds him of the woods he used to hike in as a child. Whether that was an educated guess or pure coincidence, he doesn’t know, but it makes something warm bloom in his chest. 

“It’s great,” he says. “Perfect. Thank you so much.”

Diarmuid’s smile is blinding. “Oh, I’m so glad! There was only one skein of wool this color left in the shop, I couldn’t believe my luck. I hope you get a lot of use out of it.”

“I’m sure I will,” David says. “I...really, you didn’t need—”

“Daddy, he  _ knows _ ,” Casey says in exasperation, and Diarmuid puts a hand over his mouth to stifle a laugh. David bites his lip. 

“Right. Then...thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Diarmuid says. Casey puts her returns on the desk and trots off to find something else to check out. Diarmuid begins scanning the books and David runs his hands over the tote, marveling at the rows of stitches. It looks professionally made, like something you’d see hanging in a department store. 

“I see the gift-giving went as planned,” an unfamiliar voice says. David turns around to see an older man with salt-and-pepper hair watching from the doorway.

Diarmuid smiles. “Ciaran! Yes, it went great!” 

The older man, Ciaran, steps forward and introduces himself as the reference librarian. They shake hands and David finds himself being closely scrutinized.

“You were right, Diarmuid. He  _ is _ handsome.”

David heart skips a beat as Diarmuid sputters and reaches across the desk to swat Ciaran’s sleeve. “Ciaran!” Diarmuid turns to David with a nervous smile. “I didn’t mean that in a creepy way, I promise. It’s just...well, it’s an objective fact, isn’t it?”

David’s cheeks turn pink and Ciaran chuckles. “I’m not sure you know what ‘objective’ means,” he says. “David, I assume your daughter is currently looking for more books?”

David nods. His brain has stalled on the “handsome” comment and he’s having a hard time keeping up with everything else.

“Well, if she ever wants more books on mummies, I’m sure I can help,” Ciaran says. “Kids love coming to the reference desk. It makes them feel so grown up.”

David’s lip quirks and he nods. Ciaran pats Diarmuid on the shoulder and says, “I’ll tell Rua and Cathal there’s been a sighting. They’ll want all the details.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake—”

Ciaran waves and heads back to the reference desk.

“Who’s Rua and Cathal?” is all David can think to say. Diarmuid sighs and runs a hand through his curls. 

“Rua works in the archives and Cathal works in collections. They’re...well, everyone here treats me like the library’s baby brother, you know? Because I’m so young.” He gives David an embarrassed smile. “Once they hear about it they’ll probably be running up here to get a look. If you want to escape, now might be your only chance.”

“You talk about me with your coworkers?” David says. The thought makes his stomach squirm, but not in a bad way. 

“Of course! Why wouldn’t I tell my other friends about you?”

_ Other _ friends. Because David counts as his friend. It shouldn’t be as much of a surprise as it is, but David doesn’t make friends easily. He rubs the back of his neck and says, “Right. Um. Cool.” 

Two faces pop up by the door. Diarmuid pinches the bridge of his nose. The one with short brown hair and a square chin watches David with narrowed eyes. The one with a rounder face and blue eyes looks David up and down like he expects David to pull a knife out of his boot. David looks back to Diarmuid with a raised eyebrow.

“Can I help you, gentlemen?” Diarmuid says. The one with the blue eyes has the decency to look a little embarrassed, but the other one doesn’t seem the slightest bit fazed. 

After a brief introduction, Rua crosses his arms over his chest and says, “So you’re the fabled woodworker.”

“ _ Rua _ !” Diarmuid groans. “I didn’t say that!”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

“I wouldn’t say ‘fabled,’” David grumbles. “I whittled a cat.”

“It’s a very cute cat,” Cathal offers.

“I like working with my hands,” David says, shrugging. He’s not used to so much praise. It’s...odd. 

“Yeah, well, keep those hands to yourself, okay?” Rua says. David chokes and Diarmuid lets out a scandalized gasp.

“Rua! Don’t be ridiculous!” Diarmuid says. His face flushes pink. “Honestly, he’s been nothing but nice, don’t— _ insinuate  _ things!”

“I’m not insinuating anything,” Rua says, raising an eyebrow. “I’m just giving him a warning.”

David wants the floor to open up and swallow him whole. “You don’t have to worry,” he says. “I’m not—that’s not—”

“Enough!” Diarmuid makes a shooing motion with his hands. “Stop harassing David, he doesn’t deserve it!”

Rua gives David another once-over that reminds David of the time he saw someone win a bar fight by jamming their thumbs into the other guy’s eyes. David isn’t a small man or an inexperienced fighter by any means, but he wouldn’t want to end up in a dark alley with a pissed-off Rua. Cathal waves, grabs Rua by the elbow, and steers them both out of the room. David can hear them bickering as they walk down the hall. 

“They seem...nice,” he says, and Diarmuid snorts.

“Sure, if you like mother-henning.” He bites his lip. “Um, I’m sorry about what Rua said. I hope he didn’t make you uncomfortable.”

“He didn’t,” David says. It’s only kind of a lie. “I’m glad you have people looking after you.”

Casey trots back with another armful of books. She’s expanded her horizons to include mysteries. The books fit in the tote bag perfectly. Casey pats the soft wool and says, “Now you have to make him another little friend, Daddy!”

“Oh, you don’t have to!” Diarmuid says quickly. Casey pouts.

“But you only have one! I have loads, they’re super cute. You should have more than one.” She smiles. “Daddy can make them really fast. He’s super good with his hands.”

David grimaces and Diarmuid’s cheeks turn a soft pink. “Well. I just. Um. There’s no pressure,” he says. “E-Enjoy your books!”

David rubs the back of his neck and says, “Thanks. See you in a couple of weeks.”

On the way back, Casey muses on what animals David should carve next, because “Little wooden Sebastian needs friends, Daddy!” and “I think Diarmuid wants more of them too, but adults are silly and don’t say what they want”. 

David raises an eyebrow. “What makes you say that?”

She tries to raise one eyebrow in return, fails, and ends up looking surprised. She soldiers on regardless, saying, “You said you didn’t want Diarmuid to make you something, but you love your tote bag!”

The conversation is put on pause when Casey stops to pet a passing golden retriever. She’s not completely wrong. David does love the tote bag, but he didn’t actually want Diarmuid to go through the trouble of making it for him. He made that clear multiple times. When he relays this to Casey (who is now wiping dog slobber off her face because the dog got kissy), she rolls her eyes. “Yeah. You said you didn’t want him to feel ‘obligated’ and  _ he _ said he didn’t want you to feel ‘pressured’. Adults are all the same.”

It’s an astute observation, made strange by the fact that it’s coming from someone who still believes in the Tooth Fairy. Once they get home, Casey buries her nose in a book. David sits on the couch, deep in thought as he turns his whittling knife over his fingers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I took my sweet time updating this, but in my defense I wrote seven (7) whole fics for Diarmute AU week so it's not like I've been slacking on content. Hopefully I get chapter 3 out before October lol. Enjoy!

**Author's Note:**

> The first chapter of my first multi-chapter fic! I can't promise the updates will be speedy or regular, but they will happen.


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